


a strike

by doublejoint



Category: One Piece
Genre: Established Relationship, Hunters & Hunting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:01:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29346291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: The pirate dream has reignited, spread over the world faster than a virus or an invasive species, gripping people’s errant hopes from the roots of their brains.
Relationships: Crocodile/Mr. 1 | Daz Bones
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3
Collections: February Ficlet Challenge 2021: Apocalypse No





	a strike

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 10 of the February Ficlet Challenge: Viral
> 
> hunting/killing of a crocodile

The pirate dream has reignited, spread over the world faster than a virus or an invasive species, gripping people’s errant hopes from the roots of their brains. There’s been no escaping it. Daz and Crocodile have been ambushed in their unassuming boat several times over by would-be warriors of the sea. They’ve won handily each time, because they’re professionals, and a loose grip around an idea is not enough to propel a group of people forward. (Technically, Daz supposes he qualifies as a rookie pirate, but he’s a professional assassin and he’s been adjacent to piracy for much longer.) 

The depths of a forest this far inland from the nearest port ought to grant them respite. For a short while it does; Crocodile complains about the mud close to his cape and the damp air, and Daz peers through the haze ahead of them. He can hear running water, but can’t see it, and a river or a creek does not guarantee a nearby crocodile.

Daz stops as the narrow, beaten path splits; he nearly catches his shirt on the bark of a tree. 

“Lost?” says Crocodile.

“Hardly,” says Daz.

Their voices don’t travel far. The boughs of the tree above are nearly too low for Daz, definitely too low for Crocodile. He stoops, annoyed but still smiling, as Daz turns to look at him. Their mouths are closer than usual, and the kiss doesn’t feel as much like Crocodile waiting for him. Crocodile’s mouth is dry, but his lips are smooth and soft, his teeth digging sharp into Daz’s lip, but not as sharp as Daz can make himself. They haven’t been smoking in the woods, but Crocodile still tastes like tobacco and smoke, and a hint of sweetness.

And then it becomes clear they are no longer alone. There are sounds of feet in the underbrush, and Daz readies his hands, but no large mammals bolt out of the bushes or trees, and no familiar cries are voiced. 

“Amateurs.”

“Shh!”

The voices are not meant to be heard by them, and neither Daz nor Crocodile makes any indication that they have. 

“Shall we continue?” Crocodile says.

Daz nods, and turns to the left. Another group of would-be assailants? Locals? (Wouldn’t locals know how to pass through the forest undetected? They hadn’t sounded like children.) Competitors? This forest is full of crocodiles, at least supposedly. Well, he and Crocodile could use a good fight, though the continued noise from the shrubbery is not particularly promising (though it could be a distraction). They round another corner; the sound of water grows louder, masking the rustle of branches, and a clearing is visible ahead.

They are blocked just as they reach it by a group of four young men, each with their fists raised in what Daz would guess is supposed to be a boxing stance.

“We are the pirates of the forest! This is our river!”

Daz raises his hand, flexes his fingers into blades, and they catch the sunlight from the clearing. The men’s eyes widen almost in unison, and they run--they’re fast as they are loud, Daz will give them that. But no good fight is to be had.

“How disappointing,” says Crocodile. “Are you out for blood?”

“Not particularly,” says Daz.

Crocodile laughs over the sound of the river, stretching to his full height in the clearing and throwing his shoulders back. His hook flashes blindingly bright. Those men had said they were river pirates, hadn’t they?

“Was it like this when you were young?” he says. “With everyone declaring themselves pirates?”

Crocodile’s smile shrinks. “That was after my time.”

He lets Daz tread on that ground, though, and does not push back. Daz picks up his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and puts them on; the sun is glaring off the river. Crocodile’s smile has stretched back across his cheeks; he’s practically basking in the sun. Daz scans the shoreline. No movement. No crocodiles. He rolls up his sleeves. It’s warm but not too hot, not like Alabasta was. The humidity doesn’t help, but it doesn’t bother him the way it bothers Crocodile. 

A flash of movement catches his eye; he and Crocodile both turn toward it at once. A snout emerges from the river, close to the bank, large and weathered. It does not appear to have seen them. Daz waits. 

The crocodile reaches the shore, hauls itself up by its front legs, and then, just as its tail lifts from the water, its hind legs gripping the muddy bank, Daz strikes. Before the ripples are swallowed by the flow of the water, his wrist is a cleaver straight through the crocodile’s neck.

* * *

The meat will last them until the next island, probably. Crocodile will enjoy it, his smile scraping wider across his face, and that’s reason enough for Daz to walk this far with him and butcher it himself. That, and lack of better things to do. For all that this is the New World, for all that it’s supposedly a new age of pirates, there is something of a lack of excitement in it so far. 

They clear the woods, and Crocodile pulls out his cigar case. He holds out two; Daz clips the ends and takes one for himself. In his pants pocket are a book of matches; he tears one off and lights his cigar, then tilts his head and waits for Crocodile. Crocodile obliges. 

“Are you thinking about anything in particular, Mr. 1?”

(Still, Crocodile calls him that. Were it anyone else, Daz would have stopped them long ago, but even if he could stop Crocodile with a word or a gesture, he would not.)

“I was thinking that things are getting a little boring.”

“I’m glad you agree,” says Crocodile. “Shall we set sail for somewhere more exciting?”

He means his word. The question carries more than its own weight, despite being rhetorical, really, and despite the affirmative already being present in Daz’s mouth.

“Yes.”

They have fresh grilled crocodile meat for dinner, already sailing off on the evening tide. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope the Crocodile/crocodile stuff wasn't too repetitive (but, well, it is Crocoboy's favorite food...)


End file.
